‘Yes,’ said Conn. ‘Thank you.’ The boy was ill at ease, and could not take his eyes from the knife. Banouin was his friend, but he was also a merchant, who lived for profit. When the water was hot Banouin prepared two cups of tisane and brought them to the table. Laying the knife on the polished wood, the Foreigner sipped his drink.
‘You have been very helpful to me, Connavar,’ he said, gravely. ‘It is the custom of my people to reward those who assist us. I would, therefore, like to make you a gift. I would like you to have this knife. It is a very fine knife, and many people will wonder where you acquired it. You will tell them – and it will not be a lie – that it was presented to you by Banouin the Foreigner. Does that help you with your problem?’
Conn gave a wide smile. ‘Yes, it does. Thank you, Banouin.’
‘No, let me thank you for your trust. And let me caution you never to place so much trust in anyone ever again. Every man has a price, Conn. And, damn my soul, this came awfully close to mine!’
Banouin the Foreigner led his train of sixteen ponies down the narrow trail to the ferry. The shallow wound in his upper arm was still seeping blood through the honey- and wine-soaked bandage, and yet, even so, his mood was good. In the distance he could see the craggy peaks of the Druagh mountains standing sentry over the lands of the Rigante.
Almost home.
He smiled. The home of his birth was Stone, the city of the Five Hills, in Turgony, eighteen hundred miles away, across the water. He had believed for most of his life that Stone was the home of his heart. Now he knew differently. Caer Druagh had adopted his soul. He loved these mountains with a passion he had not believed possible. Banouin had spent sixteen years moving among the many peoples of the Keltoi: the Rigante, the Norvii, the Gath and Ostro, the Pannones and the Perdii. And many more. He admired them and the shrewd simplicity of their lives. He thought of his own people, and it was as if a chill wind blew across his skin. In that moment he knew that one day they would come to these mountains, with their armies and their roads of stone. They would conquer these people and change their lives for ever. Just as they had in the lands across the water.
He thought of Connavar with both fondness and sadness. It was almost five years now since the boy had come to him with the Seidh blade. He was growing to manhood, secure in the mistaken belief that he was part of a culture that would endure. The boy was now . . . what? . . . fifteen, nearing sixteen. Almost a man, and already tall and broad shouldered, powerfully built.
Across the water Banouin had witnessed the aftermath of a great battle, the bodies of thousands of young Keltoi tribesmen – men like Ruathain and Connavar – being dragged to a great burial pit. Thousands more had been captured and sold into slavery, their leaders nailed by their hands and feet to sacrificial poles, to die slow agonizing deaths by the roadside, as they watched their people march into oblivion.
Banouin had been asked if he would like to take part in the organization of the slave sale.
He had declined, even though the profits would have been huge.
How long will it be before they come here, he wondered? Five years? Ten? Certainly no longer.
Reaching the foot of the hill Banouin and his pack ponies moved slowly to the ferry poles. Here he dismounted. An old brass shield was hanging on a peg by the far post. Alongside it was a long wooden mallet. Banouin struck the shield twice, the sound echoing across the water. From a hut on the far side came two men. The first of them waved at the small trader. Banouin waved back.
Slowly the two men hauled the flat-bottomed ferry across the Seidh river. As the raft reached the shore old Calasain unhooked the front gate, lowering it to the jetty. Leaping nimbly ashore he gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Still alive eh, Foreigner? You must have been born under the lucky moon.’